Sometimes When We Touch
by kedgeree
Summary: John might be touching Sherlock a little more often than is strictly necessary. Sherlock probably hasn't even noticed. Right...? *may contain inappropriate giggling* Set Post-Reichenbach. Slash.
1. Just A Touch

**SOMETIMES WHEN WE TOUCH**

* * *

After Sherlock's return, and the explanations, and the yelling, and the laughing that turned into crying, and the anger, and the understanding, and the forgiveness, and the things still left unsaid, and the return to a sort of a routine for Sherlock and John…something still wasn't quite right.

A part of John still felt a bit bruised. Sometimes it made his left shoulder ache. Sometimes closer to his chest. On the left side. But John wanted his old life back, so he pushed those feelings down, buried them in the sand, planted a lovely little cactus plant on top, and got on with things. And it was fun again. Exciting again. Everything was really really good.

There was no special reason that he'd been touching Sherlock a little more often that was strictly necessary. Nothing weird. Arms, shoulders, sometimes a hand on the back. Top of the back. He probably hadn't noticed, right? Friendly. Normal. Fine.

* * *

**=== CHAPTER ONE: Just A Touch ===**

John stumbled groggily into the kitchen and filled the kettle. Sherlock was at the table in his pyjama bottoms and robe, his black curls still tousled by sleep, peering at some kind of greyish goo in a set of several plastic containers.

"Experiment?" John asked, his fingers brushing the blue silk clothing Sherlock's upper arm.

"Mm," replied Sherlock, jotting down some notes in a little black notebook on the table. John translated the response to "Obviously."

"Anything on for today, case-wise?"

"Unfortunately, no, not really." Sherlock sighed, finally glancing up at John. "Although Lestrade wants me to come in and go over the Fleming case details. Shouldn't take too long."

John nodded and started preparing tea for himself and Sherlock, and a couple slices of toast. "The look on Fleming's face when he found out it _was_ his wife in that jester costume was worth the night in the wardrobe, wasn't it?" He nudged Sherlock and chuckled.

Sherlock smirked and nodded. "So what's the title of this one for the blog?"

"Erm… 'A Fool for Love?'"

Sherlock rolled his eyes and sighed. "How droll." John grinned, stirred cream and sugar into Sherlock's tea and passed him the mug.

Their fingers rubbed together momentarily in passing and Sherlock's eyes flickered up to John's. "Thank you," he murmured.

"We're almost out of milk again," John noted. Sherlock stood up and watched him as he busied himself tidying the kitchen for a few minutes. John took a sip of tea and then spread a liberal amount of strawberry jam on his two slices of toast. "And jam. I'll go to Tesco's later." He moved past Sherlock to drop the empty jam jar in the sink for rinsing, touching a hand to Sherlock's shoulder as he passed. Sherlock's eyes lingered for a moment where it had touched. "You want a slice?" John asked.

"All right."

Feeling pleased at Sherlock's rare acceptance of a food offering, John dropped one of the toast slices onto a small plate for Sherlock and handed it to him. Again their fingers slid briefly together as John transferred the plate.

"John."

"Hm?" John grunted in reply, taking a bite of toast.

Sherlock was frowning down at his plate. "I notice that you're touching me. A lot."

John stopped chewing and stared. Idiot. Of _course_ he noticed. He's _Sherlock_. Idiot. John swallowed what suddenly felt like a wad of hay and staples. He shrugged. Casual. Just act natural. "What, just now?" Because he _was_ casual. Naturally.

"No." Sherlock put his plate down on the table and leaned against the counter, folding his arms, looking _actually_ casual. "Not just this morning. For a while now. Since…."

John dropped his plate on the counter with a clatter. "So? So what if I am? I didn't notice. It's not… it's nothing. Is it a problem? It shouldn't be a problem. It's not on purpose. It doesn't…? Does it bother you? You're just _there_, in my _way_. It's not…." He shut his mouth abruptly and looked at the ceiling. Idiot. Bloody idiot.

"I didn't say there was a problem," Sherlock said slowly, his voice low and calm. "I just wondered why."

John took a deep breath. "I'm just…checking, that's all."

"Checking what?"

"That you're still there." John looked down from the ceiling to Sherlock, who was frowning slightly at him, a line of confusion crinkling between his eyes. They looked very blue this morning, sky on a clear day.

"Where would I—" Sherlock cut himself off and scowled. "But you can _see_ that I am." He waved a hand up and down his long frame.

John's shoulder pulsed once (or was it his chest?) and he took another long deep breath, and then another, before he quietly replied. "It's not enough."

Sherlock blinked. They stared at each other in silence for what seemed like an eternity until Sherlock's lips pressed together tightly and he looked down at the floor. John turned his back, picked up his mug and plate, and walked back to his room. He didn't touch Sherlock as he passed him.

* * *

John stayed in the shower longer than he needed, just staring at the water. Once he was clean and dressed he headed down the stairs, expecting to find that Sherlock would have left for Scotland Yard already. Instead he found him waiting in his chair, sleek as ever in his dark suit, tapping his fingers impatiently on his knees.

"Ready?" Sherlock quirked an eyebrow at John.

"Ready?" he repeated blankly. "Oh… I didn't think you'd need me. You said you were just going to review the Fleming case?"

"That's right. A review wouldn't hurt for your blog, would it? Get the details right this time?" Sherlock jumped up and grabbed John by the shoulders. John's eyebrows rose slightly. An awkward moment ticked past. "Yes? Let's go, then."

John let himself be spun around and herded down the stairs and out into the clear day.


	2. Harder Than It Looks

**=== CHAPTER TWO: Harder Than It Looks ===**

John tried to focus on the details of the Fleming case debriefing, scribbling occasionally in his notepad when there was an extra bit of new information he caught out of one of Sherlock's monologues. They were sitting at a table across from Lestrade, who had the experience and foresight to bring a tape recorder so he could lean back and just listen. And Sherlock's leg kept brushing John's under the table.

John frowned, forgetting what he was about to write down _again_. He scooted his chair away. Sherlock's verbal fountain of detail kept flowing unabated, but several seconds later, he scooted his chair toward John's. Their legs brushed again. Okay, this was _not_ his imagination.

Afterward, Lestrade pulled John aside while Sherlock rummaged through case file folders. "Is this one going up on the blog, then?"

"Yes, I'll probably start on it this evening. Why?"

"You just haven't put anything up on the blog in a while. We've all been missing it. Everything… going okay, then?" Lestrade nodded his head toward Sherlock.

"Yes? Fine? Why?" John hoped that didn't sound as defensive as he thought it did.

"Oh, I don't know. None of my business, I suppose." Lestrade shrugged.

"No, what?"

"Well, you're back, you know, _together_…" Lestrade started.

"We're not a couple."

Lestrade rolled his eyes. "Together as _colleagues_. But you're not like you used to be. You used to be so… in sync. You used to look like you were having fun together. " He scuffed the floor with the toe of his shoe, clearly feeling awkward. "Like I said, none of my business."

"And I don't look like I'm having fun?"

"Neither of you does."

* * *

They stopped at Angelo's for a bite to eat. John could hardly believe Sherlock was willing to eat twice in one day. Then he remember the toast he'd handed Sherlock earlier had still been sitting on the kitchen table. Untouched.

Angelo wasn't in, but they got their usual table anyway. John picked at his ravioli. Sherlock picked at his linguini.

"You aren't hungry?" Sherlock poked John in the hand with his fork.

"Ouch!"

Silence fell again. Sherlock looked out the window. John looked at his ravioli. There were six left. He lined them up in two rows. Then he re-arranged them into a circle.

"Oh, let's just go." Sherlock stood up abruptly with a clatter of silverware on porcelain, flinging his napkin onto the table. He turned and flounced out. John sighed, left some money on the table, and followed.

Sherlock was waiting on the pavement, scowling. When John came out Sherlock grabbed his elbow.

"What are you doing?"

"I'm hailing a cab, what does it look like?" Sherlock peered down the street.

"No, I'm going to walk. I need to go by Tesco's, remember?"

Sherlock's fingers tightened briefly on John's arm. John frowned at him and he let go. "Fine."

"Do you need anything?"

"No." Sherlock continued to scowl. "Well, yes. Some…powdered gelatine and some of those press-on fingernails?"

John looked at Sherlock for several seconds and then grinned, the lines of whatever tension that had creased his brow clearing away. "Okay."

Sherlock grinned back, a little sheepishly, John thought.

* * *

John was working on his blog entry for the Fleming case. "A Fool For Love" indeed. John snorted to himself. With Lestrade's words still on his mind, he was attempting to instil a sense of "fun" into his write-up, but it wasn't going very well. Fun sounded a lot like bitterness tinted with embarrassment, apparently.

Sherlock had been wafting around the flat for the better part of the evening doing god-knows-what, but he eventually materialized behind John. He put his hand on John's shoulder and leaned in close to his ear. John felt breath on his neck and twitched away. "Okay, Sherlock… _what_ are you doing?"

"What do you mean?"

John stared pointedly at Sherlock's hand on his shoulder, which Sherlock immediately snatched away as if John was covered in quills. "You're being weird. Well, you know, more so than usual. Now _you're_ touching _me_." He expected a denial from Sherlock.

"Yes, well… it's harder than it looks, getting it right." Sherlock crossed his arms and—if John didn't know better, he would have said _pouted_.

John sighed and rubbed his hand through his hair. "Look. Sherlock. About this morning. I know that was weird, too. Of me. And silly. I didn't mean… You don't have to do this… whatever it is you're doing."

"John. You indicated a need for an increased level of touch to re-affirm... something? And it seemed like a small concession, as we're… friends?" The word hung in the air strangely. "I thought it would be simple enough to incorporate but… it's really _not_ my area and –"

"Oh for Christ's sake. Just bloody forget about it, would you? Delete it or whatever it is you do. It's not important. You don't have to bloody touch me ever again if it makes you so bloody uncomfortable." He turned back to his laptop, mortified and angry, and started typing again. Sherlock continued to hover over his shoulder. Go away.

"John."

John ignored him. Shut up. Go away.

"John."

Shut up. Shut up before I turn around and punch you in the face again.

"John, what is THAT you've typed?" Sherlock's voice rose imperiously as he leaned forward to jab a finger at John's laptop screen.

John startled. "What?"

"THAT line right there." Sherlock was peering over his shoulder, his brows drawn down. He jabbed his stupid long finger at the screen again.

"What are you bloody on about now?"

Sherlock mimicked John's voice as he read from the screen. "'Clearly Sherlock has no real need, use, or even appreciation for anyone's assistance, but I have nevertheless resumed my status as general dogsbody?'"

John blinked at what he had written. Yes, he must have written that. He hadn't quite realized he'd sounded so... full of self-pity. Fantastic. But there it was. He squared his jaw."Yes? And?"

"Are you trying to insult me?"

"Yes, Sherlock, that was exactly my intention."

"I've told you before, John, I _can_ detect sarcasm. Why else would you write something so ridiculous?"

John leaned back and folded his arms. "Okay, then, tell me. What part of that sentence is the ridiculous part? Do you actually believe you need my assistance in your work?"

"In my work?"

"Right then. And I feel fairly certain that, not needing it, you don't _appreciate_ it. Which leads to my assessment of my role as 'general dogsbody' as inaccurate in what way? You never need my input as a doctor. You don't like the way I write this blog. Or that I write it at all. So basically my function in this... whatever this is... is to fetch you milk and follow you around. Oh, and every now and then I might shoot someone. Touchingly loyal, aren't I?"

John's voice had gone hollow by the end of his short speech. He turned his attention back to his laptop and for several minutes it was quiet, the only sound the clicking of the keys as John continued to type. For no reason.

Sherlock cleared his throat and his voice came out with a strange pitch. "I never meant you to feel that way."

"Then you shouldn't have shown me the truth of it," John said quietly.

Sherlock _snarled _at him and shoved him out of the way. Leaning in to take over the laptop keyboard, he highlighted and deleted the offending line of text. "It's _not_ the truth. Don't write it. Don't say it."

"What the hell are you doing?" John's voice rose to an unflattering squeak as he jumped out of his chair and faced Sherlock.

"And _don't_ tell me I can't touch you. And _don't_ tell me I don't need you."

John gaped at Sherlock, his heart pounding so hard in his chest that it was surely leaking blood into his chest cavity. He should see a doctor. He almost giggled at that, but Sherlock was staring at him with an intimidating intensity. John felt pinned in place like one of Sherlock's insect specimens.

Then Sherlock's flash-fire seemed to burn out. He looked down at the floor, just a tired man, and ran his hand through his curls. John's hand twitched at his side, and he rubbed his fingers together. "You said it's not important. The...touching thing. But clearly it _is_ important to you and… I can _try_, at least, can't I? It's something I could do. John, I _am_ trying."

Sherlock looked up at him, all sad eyes, and John sighed. He put his hand on Sherlock's shoulder. Sherlock mirrored his response tentatively, a hand to John's shoulder. Do you even know why you're trying, Sherlock? Or what you're trying to do? You're so full of shit, Sherlock. Deep breath. Another. One more.

Yes, okay, John supposed trying would be a good start.


	3. No Problem At All

**=== CHAPTER THREE: No Problem At All ===**

Trying was turning nicely into succeeding, as far as John could deduce.

John's glancing touches became the solid press of a hand. The press of Sherlock's hand began to linger for a second or two longer. John could hold his hand briefly to Sherlock's shoulder as he worked with his microscope, and Sherlock didn't even seem to mind. Sherlock would squeeze John's forearm after they laughed together over a joke. John's shoulder was feeling a little better.

* * *

John and Sherlock sat together in a cab on the way home from a crime scene. It wasn't a pretty one. Not that any of them are pretty. Sherlock was brilliant, as usual. John was troubled, but resolute. They sat quietly as London rushed past outside, and Sherlock lifted his fingers and brushed them across John's cheek. "Eyelash." It didn't matter whether there was actually one there or not.

* * *

John and Sherlock stumped through the sleet with shopping bags of what John has termed "Snow Day Supplies." Sherlock wanted to point out that it wasn't actually snowing, and that he could see no specific benefits of wine and Jammie Dodgers in combating inclement weather. But John looked happy, so he didn't. They kicked slush from their shoes as they entered the hallway at 221 Baker Street. John looked up at Sherlock, with his pink cheeks and ice crystals melting in his curls and his eyelashes and on his scarf, and his breath caught. His hands temporarily disconnected from his brain and reached up to ruffle the droplets from Sherlock's hair. "There."

* * *

The dark shape in the dark alley swung his arm and John saw the flash of light on metal. He swung Sherlock around and slammed him into the wall. The attacker's knife caught in the fabric of his coat, and John didn't need a better invitation to knock him into next week. Sherlock's fingers gripped John's jumper as they both breathed heavily, his fingers poking through the holes in the cable knit. "Good. That was...good."

"It was, wasn't it?" John chuckled.

* * *

Sherlock lay sprawled across the length of the couch, reading the newspaper. John wandered over, picked up Sherlock's feet, sat down, replaced Sherlock's feet in his lap, and picked up a section of the paper.

"Something wrong with your chair?" Sherlock drawled, raising an inquiring eyebrow.

"Light's better here for reading."

Sherlock shrugged and wriggled his toes a little, returning to his reading. He may have been humming a bit.

* * *

John left town. For five days. Five _whole_ days. As soon as he walked in the door and dropped his suitcase he was virtually tackled by a somewhat insane, brilliant, gangly, mop-headed man-child and wrapped in a tight hug. He staggered backward under the onslaught, and Sherlock's arms tightened reflexively, forcing John's breath to huff out of him quite a bit louder than expected. John slowly raised his arms to hug him back. Yes. This was nice. He hugged a little tighter.

"Erm. Hello. How are you?" Sherlock mumbled formally into John's shoulder.

"Hi." John grinned, and tipped his head back to look at Sherlock's face. Sherlock's face, which is sporting an outrageous black eye and scrape marks across his jaw. "Sherlock! What happened?!"

"Oh, this? Nothing. Some people are so sensitive about their personal habits." He waved a hand dismissively.

John frowned and examined Sherlock's face, raising his hand to run his thumb softly along the line of Sherlock's jaw. Sherlock's eyes were green today. Sunlight on trees. John breathed in the smell of brightly dappled leaves. He moved his hand so his fingers could skim Sherlock's cheekbone, just below his bruised eye. Quietly. Don't scare the rabbit. Sherlock blinked slowly. The leaves rustled in the breeze.

"I missed you, John."

John stared at Sherlock's face. He moved both hands to cup Sherlock's jaw. His thumbs moved together to rest on Sherlock's lower lip. Traced his mouth. Softly. Sherlock's breath caught and John pulled his hand away and blinked the sun out of his eyes. "Sorry... sorry... too much?"

"No… it's fine." There was a long pause. Sherlock licked his lips and stepped closer. "It's more than fine."

John's hand rose again, hovering uncertainly next to Sherlock's face. "Sherlock..." And he frowned, looking over Sherlock's shoulder and sighed. "What did you do to the wall _this_ time?"

"Still had it coming." Sherlock muttered.

"You mad bastard," John said affectionately, his hovering hand moving to rest on Sherlock's shoulder.

Sherlock reached up and took John's hand, turned his head and kissed the skin of John's palm and this time it was John's breath that caught. Sherlock leaned forward slowly—don't scare—and brushed his lips against John's.

Sherlock's kiss was light, tentative. John's was not. He buried the fingers of his left hand in Sherlock's curls. Soft black curls. Finally. His right hand went to the side of Sherlock's neck. Long neck. Finally. _Finally_. Dark curls and warm skin and John opened Sherlock's lips with his and explored with his tongue and warm and soft and deep and gentle and hard. Hard, yes. Indeed.

Sherlock's inexperience was immediately obvious. Sherlock groaned softly into John's mouth, his hands playing tag between John's arms and chest and face until finally settling with one hand in John's hair and another squeezed into the fabric of the back of his shirt, trying to press and pull at the same time.

As Sherlock figured out what to do with his own tongue and hands, John ran his tongue across the edge of Sherlock's teeth, teased his tongue, sucked on his lips, teasing and coaxing and rewarding.

Sherlock's observational skills and commanding nature chased away his obvious inexperience alarmingly quickly, as he turned John's techniques back on him, his tongue pushing in, exploring, demanding, twirling, teasing, offering, taking, his body pressing closer to John's.

John tugged at Sherlock's curls, which made him arch his head back and then there was more neck and there were still thick black curls and oh god nipping and hard velvet and pressing and hands and Sherlock and Sherlock and Sherlock and _finally_. John couldn't tell who was moaning just at the moment. He couldn't tell whose heart was pounding. He couldn't tell whose breath was so heavy. He just knew he was snogging Sherlock Holmes. The magnificent ridiculous idiot genius. The great black swan. Dark giraffe. Elegant emu. John's euphoria burst forth in a fit of giggling.

They broke apart and Sherlock frowned down at John with an incredulous look on his face. He was flushed and his lips were dark pink. "Problem?"

John giggled so hard he thought he might burst a blood vessel at any moment. He pulled Sherlock into a hug and giggled into his chest. Sherlock held himself tensely. John put his nose in Sherlock's hair and giggled some more. "No," he finally managed. "No problem." Breathing. Not always boring. Often useful. He leaned away from Sherlock so he could look at his face, and immediately sobered, because Sherlock looked... bewildered. Vulnerable. No, not laughing at you. No. He searched for reassuring words, glorifying words, but his brain seemed to have short-circuited. Beautiful man. "Beautiful man." He kissed him. He touched his face again. "Happy. Happy laughing. Very happy."

"Oh." Sherlock's face relaxed and when he spoke again his voice was gravel in hot honey. "In that case... welcome home?"

John smiled.


	4. The Fear In Me Subsides

**=== CHAPTER FOUR: The Fear In Me Subsides ===**

Where did it go wrong? Oh, right. Melded together on the couch, a tangle of arms and legs, drenched in kissing, and Sherlock had said, oh so casually, "You know you really shouldn't leave ever again." Which sounded so sweet. At first. Then something poked its way through John's pleasure-saturated haze and his eyebrows rose and his smile made the transition to bared teeth. He tensed and clambered to a standing position. Sherlock blinked. "What?"

"I shouldn't leave?" John repeated. "_I_ shouldn't...? Sherlock. I'm not the one." He took a deep breath. All the emotions bubbling up over the course of recent events seemed to suddenly decide to strike up a squash match with each other in his head. He suddenly had no idea what to feel. "I'm not the one who leaves."

Sherlock, lying there tousled and rumpled and oh-so-kissed and so fucking gorgeous, looked blank for a moment. "But you just went—" Then his mouth closed with a small snap. "Oh. That again."

Score one for Anger. "THAT again?"

Sherlock sat up. "I thought we were past that."

"No, _you're_ past it." Damn it, that shoulder twinge. Or was it his chest? It was supposed to be gone.

Sherlock took one of John's hands and pressed his lips to John's wrist. "I want us both to be past it." Score one for Tenderness.

John checked back in with Anger. "You were past it before_ I _even knew about it." Good shot, Anger. Sherlock frowned and nuzzled John's palm. Excellent return, Tenderness.

"John, I don't understand. I've explained. You understood. You said so. It's done." And it was true. It should be done. One point for Confusion. Wait, how many players were there in this bloody game? What Sherlock said was true. What _did_ John want? Confusion scored again while he was mulling it over.

He turned his hand into Sherlock's and squeezed it. "I'm sorry." Damn it, why did _he_ always end up apologizing? Was he sorry? Yes. Not an acceptance of blame. A reluctance to harm. If Sherlock was hurt, he was sorry. One point for Truth. Which really wasn't even an emotion. Fuck it, it was time to forfeit this match. "I think I'm just a little...overwhelmed right now."

"Just tell me what I should do, John." Sherlock's brow was furrowed. Strong rally by Tenderness, but the match was over. Players, stow your gear.

"I just need a little time to myself. I need to think." He hit the K, tried to lighten the moment, but nobody laughed, so he just walked away. Sherlock watched him, his expression frustrated and forlorn. Ah, so Guilt is in the match as well.

* * *

They walked around each other for several days. There was still touching. And tea. And toast. And trips to Tesco's. And time passed. Gentle touching, brushes of fingers, brushes of sad eyes. But no kissing. No words with any significance. Sherlock felt lost. John felt awful. John's chest hurt again. Everything should be right. Why wasn't it right? John might not be the detective of the house, but he _would _figure this out.

* * *

At last, a case! John thinks he actually wants a case more than Sherlock does this time. Something to break this ... this thing. Something needs to break. Yeah. Be careful what you wish for, John.

No, Sherlock still wants a new case more than John does after all. And it's just what the doctor ordered. It's wonderful. So very wonderful to see some of Sherlock's usual exuberance again after the past few days. He broke out his most endearing, boyish grin at John on the way to the crime scene and John bit his lip because he thought for a moment he might actually cry. He kicked Sherlock's foot with his foot and grinned back. Like friends. Like they're having fun. And they are. Enough fucking moping, already. Enough, John. Get the hell over it. Just look at him. Happy about a crime. Not remotely decent. Yes, John grinned too. In fact, he beamed. Beautiful.

John held out his hand to Sherlock and Sherlock reached to take it, a question in his eyes. John smiled back his answer, hoping Sherlock could read it in his face. Tonight. Tonight. You and me. Tonight. Sherlock regarded John's face gravely and then his posture changed and he squeezed John's hand so hard John thought it just might crack. Sherlock's eyes were green and blue all mixed together today. The sun was coming out again. John flexed his shoulder.

They meet Lestrade and Sergeant Donovan at the scene. If Donovan called Sherlock a freak today, neither of them noticed. Maybe she didn't bother. A young woman had been found in a small park near her flat. Shot, covered with a sheet and rose petals. Lestrade took them through the girl's flat. John trailed with his notepad as Sherlock pointed out the view through the window from the park, pictures on the bedside table. He looked in drawers, opened cabinets, examined the bookshelves. John was mostly examining Sherlock, when he noticed where his mind was and mentally kicked himself into Dr. Watson again. Crime scene for Christ's sake.

They returned to the park, where the police had taped off the area and put up a barrier to shield the body from the gathering crowd of gawkers.

"She was obviously killed inside and then carried out here, you saw the blood. Whoever did it must have brought the sheet from inside and draped it over her out here," Lestrade was saying.

Sherlock had obviously been paying more attention than John. "Wrong. Whoever it was brought the sheet with him. He was prepared. He staged the scene. An artist, then. And a voyeur. Loves to see his own work." He circled the body. "She knew him. She'd... posed... for him before. He had the whole evening planned and he would have come with all his props and been prepared to document—" He stopped mid-sentence and his head snapped up, eyes flickering across the nearby crowd. And stopped. Man with a video camera. Sherlock stared. The man's head jerked away from the camera and Sherlock plunged into the crowd.

"Shit." John ran after him. He heard Lestrade barking orders behind them, but there was no time to stop. Sherlock chased the bad guy. John chased Sherlock, heart and legs pumping hard. The chase inevitably led into a dank alley. Why couldn't they run off somewhere nicer once in a while?

He skidded around a corner in time to see Sherlock fling himself against a wall as the crack of a gunshot ricocheted off the bricks. His feet went out from under him and there was a second crack as his head hit the pavement. Stars. Solar system? Lights out.

* * *

When John's vision cleared, his head felt like it was full of broken glass and he gradually became aware he was being pawed. He blinked again, his vision tinged with red, and groaned. The sky was spinning.

"John? Oh god, John? Where were you hit?" Sherlock was kneeling beside him, his face white, his hands frantically searching John's body.

"Hit? He was way over there."

"Please don't die." Sherlock's voice was ragged, his hands continued their urgent inspection.

John thought he might throw up. Except that it would hurt too much to turn over to do it. He wasn't planning on dying, though. "What happened? Where's... bad guy?"

"John, you were shot." Sherlock's hands roamed John's legs, questing for something, and John tried to kick him away. "Please just stay still."

"Well, I would if you'd stop jostling me about like that. It hurts. Stop it."

Sherlock stared at him. "John?"

"That's m'name." John started to giggle, and then decided against it, because it made him see more stars. He groaned again instead. That didn't help, either. "Concussion," he informed his well-intentioned groper. "Not shot. Fuck. Still hurts, though. What time is it?" That seemed important. Not star time.

Sherlock's hands slowed and then stilled their frantic pawing, and his long fingers gently probed the back of John's head. No blood. He examined John's pupils. Picked up his wrist to feel his pulse. A little colour returned to his face.

"Mum always gave me toast when I was sick." John mentioned. Sherlock sat down heavily and released a long, shuddering breath. John looked at him. He was spinning a little, too, so he looked away. "I just fell. Think I slipped on some...muck. Never a nice alley. Feel like a bit of a twat, actually." He tried to smile.

Sherlock didn't smile back. He tucked his knees to his chest and wrapped his arms around them and buried his head and started rocking.

"Hey? S'okay?" John tried to reach out to touch his arm. "See?"

"Lie still, John." Sherlock lifted his head, and his eyes weren't blue or green, they were red. "We'll wait for the ambulance. It shouldn't be long."

"Okay." Sounded like a good plan. Not much moving. He did feel like a twat. And his head hurt. "Just a mild concussion. I know these things. Doctor, you know?" He tried to smile again.

Sherlock stared at him, sniffled, and squeezed his eyes shut tightly. "Is _this_ how you felt?" He didn't open his eyes, didn't wait to hear a reply. "I understand. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. "

By the time the paramedics arrived, Sherlock had dried his eyes and was sitting quietly, holding John's hand.

* * *

John's head checked out okay, but he spent the next few days in bed trying not to move much and waiting for the headache, fatigue, and general fog to clear. Sherlock brought him tea and toast. Sometimes he sat beside him and stroked John's arm as if it was a soufflé that might collapse in on itself with too much pressure. It kind of tickled. In the mornings he read to him from the newspaper. Lestrade had caught the murderer. A celebrity was dating another celebrity. A sports team had won some sort of sporting event. John didn't usually hear the words, instead he just heard a sort of low purring noise that made him doze off happily. Sometimes Sherlock lay down next to John and rested his head gently on John's arm and didn't speak at all.


	5. Enough Is Enough

**=== CHAPTER FIVE: Enough Is Enough ===**

John was out of bed, showered, dressed, and feeling quite chipper. Where the hell was Sherlock this morning? Naturally, the first day John woke up feeling well was the first day Sherlock was nowhere to be found. He looked for a note downstairs, but then it really wasn't like Sherlock to leave him a note when he went out, was it? He made tea and toast—again...perhaps he was ready for a tea and toast break—and settled down in front of his laptop to catch up on his blog comments.

It was past noon when Sherlock stomped up the stairs and through the door carrying a shopping bag and muttering what sounded like some pretty foul curses. Catching sight of John, he brightened. "You're up!"

John grinned. "Where is my phone? I need a photo of this."

Sherlock grimaced and took the bags into the kitchen. "You're feeling well again?"

John followed him in to inspect his purchases. "Very much so." Cotton buds. Floor wax. A hairnet. And behold! Milk. Jam. Bread. "Well done you!" John praised. Sherlock sniffed haughtily but John could see he also looked just a little smug. John helped him put everything away.

John looked around the uncharacteristically tidy kitchen and his stomach growled. He looked at Sherlock, who cocked his head and looked back, and another lower part of his body growled. Well, unfortunately, first things first. He cleared his throat and put on his stern medical frown. "Sherlock, have _you_ eaten anything over the past few days?"

Sherlock smirked. "So you'd like to go out to eat?"

John coughed and then grinned. "Well, yes. Good deduction."

"Angelo's okay?"

"Angelo's is good."

This time they both ate their food. And split a bottle of red wine. And had a candle. John laughed a lot. Sherlock tried to make him laugh even more. They touched fingers across the table. Sherlock's eyes were the colour of the moon.

* * *

When they got home it was dark and it felt as if an expectant hush had settled over them, their own bubble of stillness. They shed their coats and went up the stairs without speaking. Through wordless accord, neither switched on the lights. They circled each other slowly in the soft glow from the window.

Sherlock reached out and touched John's face, then let his fingers trace through his short blonde hair, smoothing it back over his ear. He pulled John to him and pressed his lips to John's temple. Then to his jaw. Then to his lips. John's hands reached up to circle Sherlock's waist.

"No, wait." Sherlock whispered, and moved his hands to grip John's upper arms lightly, holding them in place. He kissed John again, so sweetly, and then gently nuzzled his neck. John shivered as curls tickled his ear. Sherlock kissed the side of his neck, his face, the hollow of his throat, the spot where his neck joined his shoulder. His lips again. Finally he rested his forehead against John's. "John, I'm sorry."

"What? What for?" John asked huskily. Less talking. More kissing.

"For never saying I was sorry."

John closed his eyes and moved his hands to rest on Sherlock's slender hips. "Sherlock, no...I don't want you to be sorry. I mean, I appreciate that you said it. That's quite... something."

"Hurting you, John, it's... not good. I don't want to do it."

John swallowed. "I know there are risks. I know there are dangers. And Sherlock, I _like_ them. Remember? I'm as... messed up as you are in that." Sherlock huffed a little laugh. "I don't want any of that to stop. And I'm certainly not saying I _want_ to get hurt. But being hurt again isn't what scared me. I want... I want you to _not_ be sorry that you're... with me. To never be sorry. What scared me was that you'd never understand how much you meant to me. Mean to me. How much I love you. How much I need you. Want you. Missed you. Love you. I love you, Sherlock. I love you so much. You are so... so loved."

John drew breath to continue, but he was immediately smothered in detective. "I love you too, John." Sherlock tugged at John's hand and placed it between them, palm-down over his heart.

John reached up to pull Sherlock's head out of the crook of his neck, brought his lips down to meet his own, and kissed him with every piece of his soul, his hand clutched in dark curls. His other hand slid across lean warm muscles covered by cool silk and he desperately wished Sherlock's shirt would just go the fuck away right now. Sherlock's heart was pounding against his fingers. And there were hands on John as well. There were hands all over him. As Sherlock's tongue hungrily explored his mouth, Sherlock's hands hungrily explored his chest, his back, his hair, his arms. Exploring. Detecting. Detective. His. This was for him. His own private detective. John smiled against Sherlock's lips. He felt Sherlock's lips curl in an answering smile.

Sherlock shifted his lips to just beneath John's ear and nibbled."John?" His voice had dropped so low, and it vibrated through John, whose ear was apparently somehow directly anatomically connected to his cock. John sucked in his breath. Wow. Zero to cock in less than one second. John envisioned writing an article for the medical journals on the effects of the voice of a human panther. Would that be a manther? "John!" Attention please! John's cock obeyed the command in that voice, cutting off any impending giggles. Definitely an article in there, yes.

Deep breath. John lifted his head. "Yes?"

"This?" Sherlock licked his top lip slowly and John's eyelids fluttered.

"Yes?"

"This..." Sherlock kissed him. "...what we've been doing so far? It's wonderful."

"Yes."

"But..."

"But?"

"It's not enough."

John blinked. Sherlock raised his eyebrows. Significantly. "Oh. Yes. Absolutely. I agree. You're sure? Yes. Oh, thank god." A shiver of desire ran through John and ended in Sherlock and he pulled their hips together and pressed, leaving no question on either side of their interests or intentions. "In fact, I don't think there will ever be such a thing as 'enough' again."

Sherlock grunted what John took as his agreement while he pulled John's shirt free from his trousers to slide his hands across bare skin. _Finally_. John tried not to tear the buttons off Sherlock's shirt in his haste to get the bloody thing off of him, skin so much better than shirt, warm, salty. He tasted Sherlock's throat as his thumbs slid up to rub across his nipples and over his shoulders. Sherlock responded with a moan and an imprecise but effective grind of his hips against John's. He had to crouch just a bit. Crouching Panther. John wanted to find the Hidden Dragon very badly.

John's shirt hit the floor at the same time as Sherlock's. "Better lying down," John muttered into Sherlock's jaw, kissing a trail to his ear. They performed a fumbling and strange erotic slow dance routine that led to Sherlock's bedroom and ended with the two of them tumbling together onto the bed, divested of the rest of their clothing. John spared a moment for a fervent hope that there were no secret cameras currently operating in the flat.

On the bed, John pushed himself up with one arm to look at Sherlock lying there. All of Sherlock. Every last bit of Sherlock. Waiting for him. "Beautiful, beautiful man," he breathed. He knew he'd said it before, but it was the best word he could think of and it wasn't remotely used up yet. Sherlock didn't seem to mind the repetition. He looked at John through half-closed lids and affected a long, lazy stretch. John's body responded on cue. "You are _such_ a show-off!"

"Of course, that's what I d-ohhh." John raked short nails lightly across Sherlock's neck, down to his chest, and rubbed one of his nipples ever-so-lightly with his thumb.

"You were saying?" John ran his thumb across Sherlock's bottom lip. He could show off as well. He replaced that thumb on Sherlock's lip with his teeth, biting gently, tugging just a little as he let his hand run down Sherlock's chest to one long thigh, back up the other, brushing his cock with his fingertips.

Sherlock gasped and stilled John's hand with his own. "Ah?" John let go of his lip. "John, you know I... you know that I..."

John moved his hand back to Sherlock's belly and rubbed it soothingly. "I know. It's okay." Sherlock relaxed and closed his eyes. It was a little too easy to forget that Sherlock was not actually an expert at _everything_. Well, not yet, anyway. Probably by next week. "Tonight's just the beginning. We'll keep it simple." And most likely quite quick. Honestly John wasn't sure he'd be able to last much longer than Sherlock anyway at this point. He didn't want to. He watched his hand sliding over the white skin of Sherlock's torso. Envisioned it sliding back down to his erection. Stroking. Tugging. Yes. Okay.

"Okay! I'll just need to...run upstairs to my room, we could use some—"

"Oh! I have some!" Sherlock's eyes flew open as he rolled over and rummaged in his bedside table and produced a small container of lube with a triumphant flourish, like it was a white rabbit he'd pulled out of a top hat.

This time John couldn't suppress a wild giggle.

"What?" Sherlock demanded.

John pointed at the lube. "You?!"

"Shut up!" Sherlock blushed.

He was adorable. John told him so. He denied it soundly and so John kissed him soundly. He loved kissing Sherlock. Jesus, his mouth. Sherlock's mouth was like the best dessert he'd ever had, made especially for him, and nobody else was going to see how he ate it. He pressed their lips together again. And again. Harder. Again, lips parted. Again, tongues. Again, deeper. Again, possessive. Again, gentle. Again. Again. Again.

"John, _please_." Sherlock finally ground out. Time.

John sat up and opened the container of lube. "Okay?" he asked Sherlock.

"Yes." Sherlock widened his eyes impatiently. "What...do you want?"

John petted his belly again. "Relax. Just relax. I'll show you." John sat up on his knees, squeezed some lube into his hand, and stroked the length of his own cock, showing Sherlock how he liked to be touched. Sherlock watched him, mouth open, eyes hungry, and swallowed hard. John stopped and handed the lube to Sherlock. "Your turn." Sherlock complied wordlessly. John watched those long shiny fingers sliding up and down Sherlock's cock and he bit his lip. Hard. Oh. God. He looked at Sherlock... at his face, this time...and Sherlock was biting his own lip just as hard. "Okay, stop." Sherlock released a slow, shaky breath. John lay down beside him. "On your side." They faced each other and John pulled another kiss from Sherlock's lips. "Now... _our_ turn." He reached for Sherlock. He guided Sherlock's hand to him. And they moved together.

John forced his eyes to stay open and fixed on Sherlock's through the next... well, it was probably about fifteen seconds. But it seemed timeless. There was time to for Sherlock's fingers to dig into John's hip. There was time for John to press his thumb into Sherlock's open mouth. There was time to cry each other's names and shudder desperately and clutch and cling to one another and kiss. There was time for words like "love" and "wonderful" and "amazing" and "you."

Afterward, in a daze of wobbly legs and towels and a glass of water, John made his way back to reality. He nestled against Sherlock, who was propped up against a pile of pillows, still flushed, hair wild, wrapped in a sheet, and animatedly and surprisingly graphically describing all the things he wanted to try next.

Yes, John agreed to every plan. Again. Again. Again.


	6. Epilogue: A Little Bit More

**=== EPILOGUE: A Little Bit More ===**

John reclined in his chair with the newspaper and smiled as he listened to Sherlock humming away to himself in the kitchen, and the clink of microscope slides on metal. "If you're this happy now," he said very quietly, "I can't wait to see how happy you're going to be after a blow job."

A pause and a small tinkle of breaking glass came from the kitchen. The man's senses really were positively supernatural sometimes. John snapped the paper and said loudly, "Not _now_."

* * *

John sat at his laptop typing his latest blog entry. Sherlock appeared with a cup of tea and set it down quietly next to John. John glanced up and said "Thank you. How very thoughtful."

Sherlock blinked long eyelashes slowly at John. "Now?"

John's lips twitched. "No, not now." He sipped his tea.

* * *

Sherlock stood by the window in his purple shirt, playing John's favourite piece on his violin, glancing surreptitiously over his shoulder at John as he played.

John sat by the fire and wiggled his toes in warm socks. "That was lovely," he murmured when Sherlock came to a break.

Sherlock raised his eyebrows.

"Nope. Not now."

* * *

John was in the kitchen stirring a simple pasta sauce when Sherlock crept up behind him and kissed the back of his neck. John couldn't stop his responsive shiver, and Sherlock pressed his body to John's and leaned down to murmur seductively in John's ear, "Now?"

Oh, you'll _pay_ for that one, my friend. John clamped his teeth down hard on his lower lip, and then managed to say very lightly, "Not now! Pasta's ready!"

* * *

Replete with pasta and warmed by the fire, Sherlock slouched in his leather chair and scowled violently at John as he walked out of the kitchen, wiping his hands on the legs of his pyjama bottoms after having cleared the dishes. Sherlock glared at him insolently as he crossed the room. "I know, not _now_."

John smiled. "Actually, yes, now."

Sherlock sat up. "Now?"

John pushed him back down. "Yes. Now." And he dropped to his knees between Sherlock's legs.

* * *

___xxx_

_Thank you for reading!_


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